


The Things We Never See

by flamethrower



Series: On The Way To a Big Nothing/Vast Forever [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: "Detox", GFY, M/M, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Any more dark secrets you’d like to know this week?” House asks, the glare returning.  “If you’ve got something else on your mind, now’s your chance.  One time offer, valid for the next sixty seconds only.”</p><p>“Ever slept with a man?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things We Never See

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this years and years ago, when House was still in its second season. It was never published except in incomplete form on my then-LJ. Then the show came to an end, and I found myself furiously typing up a fic about it. 
> 
> It wasn't long before I realized that this is what came first.

House is sitting at his desk, staring with piercing hatred at the paperwork piled up on it.  Wilson guesses that House hasn’t been able to foist the paperwork off on anyone this time.  “Problems?”

 

House taps his cane on the floor several times, not bothering to look up.  “I can’t believe you tried to get me off of the Vicodin,” he mutters.

 

 “Excuse me?” Wilson blinks a few times, trying not to backstep.  He’s lived with House on-and-off for years now, and still he’s awful at reining in his shocked (guilty) responses to House’s random statements.  The only thing on his mind when he’d come into the office was his wife; she’d faxed the divorce documents over already.  So much for salvaging _that_ marriage. 

  
It’s ridiculous and he hates it and he’s helpless.  This time he’d been doing everything right.  _He’d been doing it right.  He loved her._

 

Given his preoccupation, Wilson really hadn’t expected House to bring something up from _last year_ and throw it in his face.  
  


 “The Vicodin,” House retorts, slamming his cane down onto the carpet with another loud thump.  “Pain medication of the strong variety.  Comes in a little bottle, usually with writing on it that makes it legal.  Consumed with water, or dry if you’re in a hurry.”

 

Wilson hides a grimace.  He doesn’t want to talk about this right now.  “Cuddy is the one who—”

 

This time House __does__ look up, giving Wilson a familiar eye roll of contempt.  “Cuddy isn’t that devious.  She tries, but she fails miserably, which is odd, since women have a natural talent for it.  Sadly, the only person in this hospital who ranks anywhere near my level of deviousness is you.”

 

Wilson sighs and gives up.  House is being complimentary.  Sort of. 

 

And it beats dwelling on the fact that he __really should have signed a fucking pre-nup._  _

 

“So, did it take me moving in with you for you to figure this out, or have you just been hoarding that fact, waiting for the right moment?” Wilson asks.

 

House grins, and it’s all teeth.  “Hoarding.  I plan to hold it over your head for a few months.  I’m really in the mood for lots of takeout.”

 

Wilson sighs and waves goodbye to his food budget for the next six months.  “Thai, Chinese, or Italian?”

 

“All three, but not at once,” House says, as if handing Wilson a gift.  Then the cane thumps again, and Wilson knows he hasn’t gotten off that easily.  “I just want to know why.”

 

Shit.  Wilson sighs, and sits down in the chair that resides in front of House’s desk, the one that isn’t full of medical journals.  (He suspects the office porn is hidden at the bottom of the stack.)  “I wanted to know what you were like when you weren’t strung out on Vicadin.”

 

House tilts his head, the sarcastic light in his eyes not fading in the slightest.  “Miserable.  I mean, duh.  You could have just _asked._ ”

 

 “Yeah, I guess I could have.  But I didn’t think you’d give me a straight answer,” Wilson says, feeling even more guilty than when House had come to him, cradling his broken hand. 

 

He really hadn’t believed that House would go that far to win a bet, but House had proven Wilson wrong.  Again.  House _always_ proved Wilson wrong.

 

Cuddy yelled at him for three days.  Wilson likes his job, so he hadn’t bothered to remind Cuddy that she was just as responsible for a Vicodin-less House as Wilson was.

 

House raises an eyebrow at Wilson, throwing the cane up into the air.  He catches it, flips it over in his hands, and glares at Wilson. “I have the urge to hit you with this.  But since you bought it for me, it’s probably sturdy enough to crack your skull.”

 

“Probably,” Wilson retorts, eyeing the cane.

 

Wilson bites back a relieved sigh when House puts the cane aside.  House leans back in his chair, clasping his hands together and eying Wilson speculatively. 

 

Wilson has the distinct feeling that he’s being laughed at. 

 

“I tried to quit before, you know.  I wasn’t always the willing junkie you and Cuddy take me for.”

 

Wilson thinks about arguing, but what’s the point?  He _does_ think House is a junkie.  “When was that?”

 

House put his feet up on his desk, lifting his bad leg into place.  “After the divorce.  Couldn’t decide what hurt worse.  After the first two days I realized that withdrawal and chronic pain were almost as bad as being alone, and I decided that I could at least do something about the first one.”

 

Wilson stares at House, so startled that he doesn’t know what to think.  House gave him a straight answer.  There should be clanging bells and confetti involved.

 

 “Any more dark secrets you’d like to know this week?” House asks, the glare returning.  “If you’ve got something else on your mind, now’s your chance.  One time offer, valid for the next sixty seconds only.”

 

Wilson opens his mouth to say no, and instead something far more personal than Vicodin queries pops out.  “Ever slept with a man?”

 

House stops glaring.  In fact, he looks puzzled. 

 

Wilson takes a moment to contemplate this; he can’t remember the last time he’s seen House look baffled.

 

House recovers fast, smiling at him.  “Have I ever slept with a man?  Well, there were those non-incestuous times with my father.  In college, there was the drunken roommate who thought my bed was much more comfortable than his own.  However, I’m guessing by your look of horror that your question has more to do with sex, which has little to do with sleep.”

 

“Uh… yeah,” Wilson admits, swallowing hard.

 

House picks up the cane again, toying with it, spinning it around.  For five minutes he studiously ignores Wilson’s presence.  A lesser (wiser) man would have given up and left.

 

Then House says, “Any particular reason you were asking, or were you curious to find out if that prostitute I hired was of the transvestite variety?”

 

Wilson considers backing out of his chair, out of the office, and going Far, Far Away.  House would only follow him, though. 

 

“I—No!  I don’t give a damn about her—it—him—whatever!”

 

Greg House is laughing at him.

 

Wilson gives up and laughs, too.  He runs nervous hands through his hair and hopes he isn’t blushing.  He’s a masochist, has to be.  The one person in the world who leaves him rattled, all the time, is the person Wilson has agreed to live with.  Again.  “I don’t even know why I asked.”

 

House eyes him, a hint of disbelief in his eyes.  “Well, to answer your question, Captain Bashful, the answer is: Almost.  I’ve considered it, but you know how things are.  Sex leads to relationships, relationships lead to sharing your toilet with someone else…”

 

“Sharing your toilet leads to divorce?”  It’s happened to Wilson enough times that he considers it gospel.  If he ever marries again, separate bathrooms are a necessity. 

 

Maybe separate houses.

 

House looks pleased.  “Bingo.  And stop thinking that my ex-wife and I were doing naughty things in our bathroom.  We saved that for the kitchen.  Much more sanitary.”

 

“Statistically, bathrooms are cleaner,” Wilson counters, starting to smile again.

 

House looks predatory, like he always does when there’s a patient to diagnose or explosions afoot.  “Chinese and t.v. for dinner?  I’ve been hearing good things about those Mythbusters people, and Chow Fun goes well with explosions."

 

“Okay, but if there’s a sock on the door when I get home, I’m taking all of the food and eating somewhere else.”

 

“No socks and no transvestites.  Scout’s honor,” House says, holding up his fingers.  He has the salute wrong.

 

Wilson grins back.  There are worse roommates to have. 


End file.
